The Wrong Mother

11

Thursday, 9 August 2007

Nick is lying on the sofa, which is on the ceiling instead of the floor. He has tomato sauce all over his face. Zoe is sitting on his knee, kicking the lampshade with her foot. The news is on too loud, and the television is also upside down. The children’s toys are whirling in mid-air, in constant motion. Jake comes in, walks across the ceiling and asks Nick, ‘Where Mummy gone?’ His palms are flat, upturned-or rather downturned-and his face is set in a curious frown, a replica of the puzzled expressions he’s seen on grown-ups’ faces. ‘Gone a London, Daddy? Back soon?’

I jolt awake and the horror rushes to meet me. No gradual dawning of awareness-it hits me all at once. I’m still here, locked in the room. How could I have fallen asleep? I remember crying and begging to be released, falling to the floor eventually, hungry and exhausted…

He drugged me. He must have done. The bottle of water that was on the passenger seat of my car, not in the footwell where I expected to find it… the water he brought me when he first came into the room…

I run to the door. Still locked. I start to bang and scream. When my fists don’t make a loud enough noise, I hurl my whole body at the door, over and over. If it hurts, I’m unaware of the pain. My mind only has space for one thing: the need to get out of here.

My bag-it’s still there, by the window. I lunge and grab it, tip the contents out all over the floor. My phone has gone. So has my watch, I notice when I try to look at it. He’s been in here while I was asleep. I don’t know how long I slept for, but it must have been a while. I can tell from the light coming through the curtains that it’s daytime now.

The curtains. I yank them open. There’s a small, paved yard outside, dotted with plants in pots of different sizes and styles-too many. Enough to cause an obstruction to anyone who might want to walk from the house to the tall, thick hedge that encloses the yard on two sides, as sturdy-looking as a brick wall. There is no third side to the yard, so it must turn the corner, go round the side of the house. Among the plant-pots-at their centre-there is a small fountain, a silver elephant’s head on a tray. Water pours from the trunk, shows no sign of stopping. In one corner of the yard there’s a wooden gazebo that’s missing one or two planks from its seat. Next to this is a black-painted wooden gate, solid, the same height as the hedge. There’s a padlock on it.

Nothing to indicate where this house is. No chance of a passer-by seeing me, however long I stand by the window.

I run back to the door, grab the handle with both hands and use what little energy I have left to produce the loudest scream I can. No response. I listen. Is there only silence in the rest of the house, or can I hear something? Has he gone out or is he waiting on the other side of the door, listening to my anguish and ignoring it? I no longer feel hungry, only emptier than I have ever felt. The air seems to ripple slightly each time I turn my head, as if it’s some kind of thick, transparent liquid.

‘Sally?’

‘Unlock the door, let me out!’ I hate myself for being pleased to hear his voice.

‘All right. But… Sally, I don’t want you to get a shock. Are you listening?’

What is he talking about?

‘I’m holding a gun. When I open the door, I’m going to be pointing it at you.’

‘I need to phone Nick. Please. Give me back my phone.’

The door opens. He looks exactly the same as he always has, the same helpful, concerned face. The only change is the gun in his hand.

I’ve never seen a gun in real life before. I’ve seen them in films, on television, but it’s not the same. Stay calm. Think. The gun is small, grey and smooth.

‘I’m not going to do anything stupid,’ I tell him. ‘But I do need to phone Nick, as soon as possible. I don’t want him to worry about me.’

‘He won’t. He isn’t. Look.’ He pulls my phone out of his pocket and hands it to me. There’s a message from Nick: ‘Talk about short notice. Yes, can pick up kids if have to. Come back asap. Ring when you can-kids will want to speak.’

Next I read the text that supposedly came from me, the one Nick replied to. It is shorter and less informative than any message I’ve ever sent. It says that I have to leave for Venice immediately because of a crisis, that I’ll be back as soon as I can.

For Christ’s sake, Nick! When have I ever sent such a business-like text? When has my work involved a crisis so dire that I would set off abroad without making sure to speak to you first? When have I ever not signed a message ‘S’, with three kisses?

I clear my throat, struggle to find my voice. ‘You wrote this? As me?’

The man nods. ‘In spite of everything, I didn’t want Nick to worry.’

‘When will you let me go home?’ I ask tearfully. ‘How soon is soon?’

He lowers the gun, walks towards me. I flinch, but he doesn’t hurt me. He wraps his arms round me, hugs me for a few seconds, then releases me. ‘I expect you’ve got a lot of questions,’ he says.

‘Did you kill Geraldine and Lucy? Is your real name William Markes?’ I ask because I think he wants me to. All I care about, at this moment, is when I’ll see my family again; that’s the question that fills my mind, along with all its possible answers.

‘Who?’ His body stiffens. He raises the gun. Silence swells around us.

‘William Markes,’ I repeat. He doesn’t recognise the name. And it frightens him. Not knowing frightens him.

‘No,’ he says eventually. ‘My name is not William Markes.’

‘You said “In spite of everything”-you didn’t want Nick to worry in spite of everything. In spite of what?’

‘His mistreatment of you.’

‘What?’

‘He treats you like a skivvy.’

‘No, he doesn’t!’

‘“I go from room to room tidying up, and before I’ve finished, Nick’s worked his way round most of the house messing it up again, and I have to start from scratch.” Do you remember saying that to me?’

‘Yes, but-’

‘This is the man you want to go back to?’

‘You’re insane.’ If he wasn’t holding a gun I’d call him something worse, much worse.

He laughs. ‘I’m insane? You’re the one who told me what you’d do with the money if you ever won the lottery. I got all this from you.’

‘I never said anything about-’

‘You’d hire a full-time servant to walk round your house seven days a week, arranging each room so that it looked as you wanted it to look. That way you’d never have to encounter Nick’s mess; you’d be able to walk into a room and sit down without having to repair any damage first.’

He’s right. I forgot the lottery part; the rest is familiar. My words. He is taunting me with my own words. ‘I love Nick and I love my kids,’ I tell him, crying. ‘Please, let me go! Put down the gun.’

‘It’s hard for Nick when you’re away, isn’t it? You have to hire a woman to help look after him and the kids or else things spiral out of control pretty quickly.’

Pam Senior. Pam helped Nick, the week I was at Seddon Hall. What does she have to do with any of this?

‘But if he goes away-not that he does very often. You’d like him to go away more often. If Nick goes away, your life gets easier. You’ve got the kids to look after, yes, but not the strewn newspapers and the discarded banana skins-’

‘Stop.’ My head throbs. I want to curl into a ball on the carpet, but I can’t. I have to try and get out. ‘Please, stop. You can’t honestly believe-’

‘What do you think of this room?’ He takes my phone from my hands, puts it back in his pocket and points the gun at my chest.

‘What?’

‘Tidy enough? It can hardly be messy. There’s nothing in it apart from the massage table, you and your bag. More furniture is on its way: a bookcase, a lamp. You don’t like it, do you?’ His voice shakes. ‘Can’t wait to get out. I did it up specially for you. The massage table wasn’t cheap, but I know how much you like your massages. And the carpet, and the lampshade. I chose everything for you.’

‘Including the lock for the door?’ I dig my fingernails into my palms to stop myself from howling.

‘I’m sorry about that,’ he says. ‘And I’m sorry about the prop.’

‘What?’

‘The gun.’ He waves it at me. ‘I’m hoping I won’t need it for much longer.’

I’m too crippled by terror to work out if this is a threat. ‘Why?’ I ask. ‘What’s going to happen?’

‘That’s up to you. Do you know how many times I painted these walls? At first I thought pale apricot, but it was too sickly. I tried yellow-too dazzling. And then a couple of weeks ago I thought of the obvious-white. Perfect.’

This can’t be happening. It cannot be that a madman has been creating a room in which to imprison me while I’ve been getting on with my life, completely unaware. My thoughts become more concrete and focused as it dawns on me that what he’s saying can’t be right. A couple of weeks? Two weeks ago, Geraldine and Lucy Bretherick were still alive. But… the carpet is new and the room smells of paint. He can’t have ordered the carpet since Geraldine and Lucy died. It would have taken longer than that…

As if he can read my mind, he says, ‘Your being here has nothing to do with the deaths that have been on the news. Maybe that influenced the timing a bit, but-’

‘I know who you are,’ I tell him. ‘You’re Amy Oliver’s father. Where are Amy and her mother? Did you kill them too?’ I don’t know anything; I’m guessing. But I’m starting to want to know. Maybe finding out the truth is the only way to understand him, my only chance of getting out of here.

‘Did I kill them?’ I’ve made him angry. ‘Look at me. Do I look like the sort of man who would kill his wife and daughter?’ He sees me staring at the gun. ‘Ignore this thing…’ He shakes it in the air, scowling at it as if it’s attached itself to his hand against his will. ‘Look at my face. Is it the face of a killer?’

‘I don’t know.’

He raises the gun, straightens his arm so that it’s closer to my face.

‘No,’ I manage to say. ‘You’re not a killer.’

‘You know I’m not.’

‘I know you’re not.’

He seems satisfied, and lowers the gun. ‘You must be absolutely famished. Let’s eat, and then I’ll give you the grand tour.’

‘Tour?’

He smiles. ‘Of the house, stupid.’

He has already laid the table. The meal is pasta covered in grey, gelatinous gloop, the same colour as the gun. There are flecks of green in the sauce and funny straight sticks that look like pine needles. My throat closes. I can barely breathe.

He tells me to sit. At the far end of the kitchen there is a round wooden table and two wooden chairs. At some point someone who lived here got carried away with small square tiles in primary colours. The room looks like something from a children’s TV programme.

‘Linguine with a leek and anchovy sauce,’ he says, putting down a plate in front of me. A spiral of leek, like a green snake, protrudes from the grey slime. The fishy, lemony smell makes me gag. ‘With parsley and rosemary. Incredibly nutritious.’ He sits down beside me.

So the pine needles are rosemary. I see a recipe book open on the surface beside the sink. A leather, tasselled bookmark lies across the double-page spread.

The back door has a glass panel in it, but I can see nothing that might smash it-no heavy-handled knives out on the work-surface, no chunky chopping-boards. All the counters are spotless, empty apart from the recipe book. The gun sits on the table, beside his right elbow.

He says, ‘I won’t offer you a glass of wine, if that’s all right. But I also won’t have any myself.’

I quell the scream that’s rising inside me and manage to nod. What is he talking about? His words make sense, yet at the same time they are completely incomprehensible. Through the glass in the door I see a large wooden shed and more potted plants, mainly cacti. The private space is enclosed by a high hedge and an even higher brick wall.

I am in a house that will be almost impossible to escape from.

‘Is the food all right?’

I nod.

‘You’re not really eating it.’ He chews and swallows noisily, questioning me in between mouthfuls. His noises make me feel sick. In the end, I force down everything on my plate in order to convince him of my gratitude.

When we’ve both finished, he says, ‘There’s no pudding apart from the healthy kind. If you’re still hungry there’s plenty of fruit. I’ve got apples, pears or bananas.’

‘I’m full. Thanks.’

He smiles at me. ‘How long has it been since someone looked after you, Sally?’

‘I’m fine.’

‘I remember you telling me your ideal lunch was a drive-through McDonald’s. Do you remember what you said?’

‘No.’

‘I said, “You can’t possibly think McDonald’s burgers taste good.” And you said, “They taste brilliant to me, mainly because they’re quick and easy. I don’t even have to get out of the car. My taste buds are easily influenced.” ’

My stupid little McDonald’s appreciation speech. I’ve recited it so often, to so many people.

‘Do you remember telling me that every time Nick cooks he demolishes the kitchen, and it takes you at least two hours to reconstruct it afterwards?’

I blink away tears. I’m not sure how much more of this I can stand.

‘You don’t have to worry about mess with me.’ He gestures around the room. ‘No work for you to do at all.’

‘When can I phone my children?’

His face shuts down. ‘Later.’

‘I’d like to speak to them now.’

‘It’s not even lunchtime. They’re still at nursery.’

‘Can I phone Nick?’

He picks up the gun. ‘I still haven’t shown you round. This is the kitchen, obviously. It’s where I normally eat, but there’s also a dining room. It’s handy to have two dining areas, especially with children.’ A quick glance at his face tells me he is serious.

He thinks he’s introducing me to my new home.

‘You’ve got children?’ I try to sound matter-of-fact.

His face shuts down. ‘No,’ he says, looking away.

Fear presses down on my heart. It takes me a while to rise to my feet. He pretends not to notice the state I’m in as he leads me round the house, one hand on my arm. From time to time, he says, ‘Cheer up!’ in an unconvincingly hearty voice, as if my distress embarrasses him and he doesn’t know how to react.

The room he locked me in is included in the tour. It’s where he takes me after he’s forced me to be more admiring of the narrow beige dining room than it deserves by repeatedly saying, ‘What’s the matter? Don’t you like it? You don’t seem to like it,’ tapping the gun against his leg.

He tells me the room with the stripy carpet used to be a garage. ‘There’s still a garage,’ he adds quickly, as if he imagines the lack of one might concern me. ‘A double, detached from the house. But there used to be an integral one as well. We didn’t need two, so we decided to turn this one into a playroom.’ He sees my shock and sighs. ‘I don’t want you to think I’m unwilling to confide in you,’ he says. ‘I know it must seem as if there’s a lot you don’t know about me, and I will tell you, I promise, but the important thing is you, Sally. You’re the only person I’m interested in now, for the time being at least. You won’t get upset if I mention the past, will you?’

‘No,’ I hear myself say. I wish I could go back in time, into my own past, and scream at myself to stay away from him. How could I have been so stupid? If he’s insane now he must have been insane last year, when I first met him. Why didn’t I spot it? What’s wrong with me? Is this my punishment? I didn’t even fancy him that much. Was I so desperate to have an adventure, to make the most of my one week of freedom, that I missed all the obvious warning signs? I could lose Nick, my children, my whole life, because I chose to have a fling with this man of all men.

My resolve hardens. I have to get out of here, whatever it takes.

‘Show me the rest of the house,’ I say.

He doesn’t need any encouragement. As he marches me from room to room, still holding me by the arm, I look for something I can grab and use to knock him out. There’s a wrought-iron letter-stand on a table in the hall with a small lamp beside it. Either of these might do, if only he would take his eyes off me for a second.

The lounge is the biggest room I’ve seen so far, full of bulky chairs and sofas upholstered in distressed brown leather, with a beige velvet-effect carpet. The walls that aren’t covered with bookshelves are white. After we leave the room, I realise I didn’t take in the title of a single book, and there were dozens. There was something on the wall too-a framed, brightly coloured poster with writing on it-something about El Salvador.

I must pay more attention. If I get out of here, I’ll have to describe this house to the police.

Halfway up the stairs he stops and says, ‘You’ll have noticed there was no television in the lounge. Television in the lounge kills conversation, but I can get you one for your room if you’d like.’

It’s not my room, I want to scream at him. Nothing here is mine.

Upstairs there are six rooms, five with their doors standing open. He walks me into each one, then out again almost straight away. One contains gym equipment-weights, a cross-trainer, a treadmill, an exercise bike-as well as a stereo, a club-style swivel chair in burgundy leather and two speakers, the biggest I have ever seen. The second is a bedroom, with pale blue walls, a blue carpet, navy curtains with a white trim and a double bed with blue bedding. Two blue towels lie neatly folded on the bed. ‘This is the guest room,’ he says, ‘but we call it the Blue Room.’

In the next bedroom we come to, everything is pink and floral. A little girl’s room. I feel as if I might faint. There is a single bed against one wall. Beside it are two toy cots and a plastic toy bath. I am allowed only a fleeting glimpse of the master bedroom before he pulls me into the smallest of the upstairs rooms, a boxroom. It has an aubergine-coloured carpet that is flecked with white, yellow walls, a skylight, a desk and more shelves full of books. My eyes are drawn to a novel I read while I was at university: The Secret Agent by Joseph Conrad. I hated it. And there are other books by Conrad too-eight or nine, titles I’ve never heard of: Almayer something. My eyes flit to the shelf above, too impatient to read the whole title.

What’s wrong with this room?

A circle of pain around my arm and I’m dragged out on to the landing. Did I see something? What was it my eye landed on that didn’t look right?

The man steers me towards the sixth door on the landing, the only one that’s closed. He tries the handle. ‘Locked, see? The plumbing’s not working and I don’t want a flood.’ I stare at the shiny lock. It looks new. How recently did he have it put on? ‘I’ll show you the bathroom you can use.’ He uses the gun to usher me downstairs; I can feel it against my back.

Halfway down I lose my footing and fall, hitting my side on the steps. ‘Careful!’ he says. I hear panic in his voice. Does he imagine he cares about me? Is that what he tells himself, his justification?

I stand up, winded but determined not to let him see I’m in pain. He is eager to show me what he calls my ‘private bathroom’. In the hall, under the stairs and opposite the entrance to the kitchen, there’s a door with a sloping top that follows the line of the stairs. I didn’t notice it before. He opens it. Inside, there’s a lavatory, shower and basin, all within a few centimetres of each other. I’m not sure there would be room for a person to stand in front of the basin if the door were closed.

‘Bijou I think is the word,’ he says. ‘This used to be the cupboard under the stairs. I never wanted to turn it into a bathroom; this house hasn’t got much in the way of storage space, and the master bedroom’s got an en-suite…’ He frowns, as if an unwelcome memory has forced itself upon him. ‘I suppose it’s lucky I lost the argument.’

‘Argument with who?’ I ask, but he isn’t paying attention. He mumbles something that sounds like ‘satisfied diffusion’.

‘Pardon?’ I say.

‘Stratified diffusion.’

‘What’s that?’ Mark Bretherick is a scientist. Could this man be one too? Is that how they know each other?

‘En-suite bathrooms. Foreign holidays, too. It doesn’t matter.’ He waves his gun to dismiss the topic, nearly hitting me in the face. Mark Bretherick told me that Geraldine and Lucy’s bodies were found in the two bathrooms at Corn Mill House. The door of one bathroom in this man’s house is locked. Does it mean anything?

‘I don’t understand.’ I look into his eyes, searching for a person I can reach somehow. How can I persuade him to let me leave?

‘Do you want to phone Nick now?’ he says.

‘Yes.’ I try not to sound as if I’m pleading.

He hands me my phone. ‘Don’t speak for too long. And don’t say anything disloyal. About me. If you even try, I’ll know.’

‘I won’t.’

‘Say you’re busy and you don’t know when you’ll be back.’ He holds the gun to the side of my head.

Nick answers after the third ring. ‘It’s me,’ I say.

‘Sal? I thought you’d forgotten we exist, me and the kids. Why didn’t you ring last night? I told them you would-they were really disappointed.’

‘I’m sorry. Nick-’

‘When are you back? We need to talk about your work situation, sort something out. Save Venice can’t expect you to drop everything and go running whenever it suits them.’

‘Nick-’

‘It’s ridiculous, Sal! You didn’t even have time to ring me? I’m not surprised your employers forget you’ve got two young children-you act like you’ve forgotten too, most of the time!’

I burst into tears. That’s so unfair. Nick gets angry so rarely. ‘I can’t discuss this now,’ I tell him. ‘The freezer’s full of stuff Zoe and Jake can have for their tea.’

‘When are you back?’

Hearing this question, answering it, is as painful as I imagined it would be. ‘I don’t know. Soon, I hope.’

A pause.

‘Are you crying?’ Nick asks. ‘Look, sorry for moaning. It’s a nightmare having to do it all myself, that’s all. And… well, sometimes I worry your work’s going to take over your whole life. A lot of women scale down their careers when they have kids; maybe you ought to think about it.’

Silently, I count to five before answering. ‘No.’ No, no, no. ‘I’m not scaling down anything. This is a one-off crisis. Owen Mellish and I had to drop everything and come and sort it out.’ Come on, Nick. Think about it. Owen has nothing to do with Venice -he works with me at HS Silsford. I’ve told Nick many times that I think Owen’s jealous because I got the Venice job and he didn’t.

‘Owen Mellish?’ says Nick. Thank God. ‘The creep with the phlegmy voice?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Oh, right,’ says my husband, sounding mystified. I wait. All I need is for him to ask if something’s wrong. Even if I can’t give him any details, even if all I can do is answer his questions with a yes or no, it will be enough to alert him. He will contact the police.

I wait, breathing jaggedly, nodding as if Nick is speaking so as not to arouse suspicion. The gun is touching my skin. ‘Great,’ says Nick after a few seconds. Something has gone wrong: he sounds amused, not worried. ‘My wife’s run off to Venice with Mr Phlegmy-voice. Listen, I’ve got to go. Ring tonight, yeah?’

I hear a click.

‘What a disappointment,’ says Mark. The man who is not Mark. ‘You should have married a man with a career, not just a job. Nick will never understand.’

I can’t speak, or stop crying.

‘You need comforting so rarely-you’re so strong, so dynamic and capable-but now, when you really need him, Nick lets you down.’

‘Stop. Stop…’ I want to ring Esther, but he’d never let me. Esther would know instantly that I was in trouble.

‘Do you remember at Seddon Hall you told me you didn’t think you were cut out for family life?’

Disloyal. I was disloyal to Nick and the children, and I am being punished for it.

‘I don’t think that’s right.’ He puts his arm around my shoulders, squeezes. ‘I told you so at the time. Trouble is, you’re trying to be part of the wrong family.’

‘That’s not true…’

‘You’re the perfect wife and mother, Sally. That’s something I’ve realised recently. You know why? Because you know how to strike a balance. You’re devoted to Zoe and Jake-you adore them, you look after them brilliantly-but you also have a life and a purpose of your own. Which makes you an excellent role model.’ He smiles. ‘Especially for Zoe.’

I try to jerk my body away from him. How dare he talk about my daughter as if he knows and cares about her, as if she is our shared concern?

‘Don’t let Nick talk you into sacrificing yourself so that his life can be even easier. So many husbands make their wives do that-it’s not healthy.’ He tucks the gun into his trouser pocket and rubs his hands together. ‘All right,’ he says. ‘Lecture over. Let’s go and get you settled in your room.’

Police Exhibit Ref: VN8723

Case Ref: VN87

OIC: Sergeant Samuel Kombothekra

GERALDINE BRETHERICK’S DIARY, EXTRACT 6 OF 9 (taken from hard disk of Toshiba laptop computer at Corn Mill House, Castle Park, Spilling, RY29 0LE)

9 May 2006, 10.30 p.m.

Today I did what I’ve often fantasised about doing but never believed I would. I underestimated my own audacity. My mobile phone rang at ten o’clock this morning. It was Mrs Flowers, ringing to say that Lucy had been sick, instructing me to come and collect her. I felt as if concrete slabs were falling inside my chest one by one, a ‘domino effect’ of horrified realisation: everything I wouldn’t be able to do if I went straight to St Swithun’s as I was being ordered to.

Children are sick all the time; usually it is insignificant. I asked how Lucy was now.

‘Subdued,’ said Mrs Flowers. ‘She’s sitting on Miss Toms’ knee, reading a story. I’m sure she’ll perk up no end when she sees Mummy.’

I heard myself say, ‘I wish I could come and get her, but I’m in Prague.’ I don’t know why I picked Prague. Perhaps because its name is short and terse, easy to bark when you’re in a foul mood. ‘Even if I got on the first flight back…’ I stopped, as if I was trying to work it out. ‘No, you’d better ring Mark,’ I said.

‘I already have,’ said Mrs Flowers. ‘He’s recorded a message on his voicemail saying he won’t be back until after lunch.’

‘Oh dear!’ I tried to sound anguished. ‘Can you cope until then?’

Mrs Flowers sighed. ‘We can cope. It’s Lucy I’m thinking of. Never mind. We’ll give her lots of cuddles and try to keep her happy until we can get hold of Daddy.’

You’ll try, and you’ll succeed, I thought, because you’re brilliant with small children. I too was thinking of Lucy, however selfish Mum might say I am. Last time I picked Lucy up early from school because she was ill, I ended up threatening her, tears of fury pouring down my face. ‘I was poorly at school today, Daddy,’ she told Mark later. ‘And it made Mummy poorly too-she cried all the way home. Didn’t you, Mummy?’ Mercifully, she didn’t tell Mark the rest: that I shook my finger in her face and said, ‘If you’re ill, you’ll go straight to bed when we get home and have a long sleep; you’ll sleep for the rest of the day and let Mummy get on with all the things she has to do. If you don’t want to sleep, that means you’re well enough to stay in school and I’ll take you straight back there.’ A terrible thing to say, I know, but it was a Monday. I look forward to Mondays like nobody would believe; after each weekend, my need to get away from Lucy and have some time and thinking space for myself is overwhelming. I love my daughter but I’m terrible at being a mother. The sacrifices that are required of me are against my nature, and it is time that the world-including Mrs Flowers-started to take my innate deficiencies into account. If I said I was a dreadful tennis player, no one would urge me to keep trying until I’m as good as Martina Navratilova.

We ought all of us to ‘play to our strengths’. Which is why I felt betrayed when Cordy told me she is planning to give up her job when her new baby is born. So much for my theory about her leaving Dermot in order to be able to leave Oonagh and motherhood behind as well. ‘I can afford not to work for a few years,’ she said, in response to my asking why. ‘I’ve got quite a bit saved up. And I haven’t really enjoyed being a working mum. I want to be there for my kids myself, not have to rely on my ageing parents or a semi-literate childminder. I want to do the whole mummy thing. Properly.’

I felt bilious, and was unable to speak while I waited for the feeling to subside. So that’s that, I thought: the end of the career of one of the brightest women I have ever met. Cordy could make it to the top of any profession she chose. If she doesn’t like being a financial adviser she could do something else-train to be a lawyer or a doctor, write a book, anything. I have always had so much more respect for her than for the mothers who immerse themselves in what Cordy calls ‘the whole mummy thing’, the ones who are only so good at mothering because they have to be, because they are afraid of setting foot outside their own front doors and they need the perfect excuse. Can’t hack it in the real world? Have a baby, then, and let everyone praise you for your commitment and devotion to your child above all else. Pride yourself on stuffing your child’s school bag full of papayas and kiwis for snack time, instead of the small dented apples that working mothers rely on. Stand at the school gates twittering, ‘All I’ve ever wanted is to be a mum.’

People without children can’t get away with making an equivalent statement, can they? ‘Excuse me, madam, but why do you sit at home all day doing sod all?’ ‘Oh, well, it’s because I want to devote myself full-time to being a niece. I’ve got an aunt, you see. That’s why I’ve decided not to achieve anything ever. I really want to pour all my time and energy into my niecehood.’ People would be quite blunt and say, ‘Don’t you think you ought to do something else as well as being a niece?’ I know the obvious answer: babies and children take up more time than aunts. Nevertheless, there is a fundamental truth in what I’m saying.

I asked Cordy if she was familiar with the ghost story about the monkey’s paw. She wasn’t. It didn’t help that I couldn’t remember all the details. I told her a trimmed-down version. ‘An old couple find a monkey’s paw, which enables them to make a wish. Any wish they make will come true,’ I said. ‘They lost their only son in tragic circumstances-he fell into a piece of machinery at the factory where he worked and got mangled so badly that he died…’

‘They wish for him not to be dead?’ Cordy guessed.

I smiled. You have to word it in exactly the right way or else the story doesn’t work. ‘The couple closed their eyes, held the monkey’s paw in their hands and said, “Please, please, bring back our only son-that is our wish.” That night, there’s a knock at the door. They rush to open it, and it’s him. Except it’s not him as he used to be: it’s a walking, breathing, bloody mangled mess, a grotesquely twisted lump of meat brought back to life, unrecognisable as human-’

‘Yuck!’ Cordy elbowed me in the ribs. ‘Shut up.’

‘I always think of that story when I think about working mothers.’

‘Why, for God’s sake?’ Cordy asked.

I told her: because, for Gart’s sake, when a woman returns to work after having a child or children, she is not the same. She is a semi-destroyed version of her former self. Mangled, virtually falling apart, she goes back to her workplace and she knocks on the door, and her colleagues are horrified to see how she’s changed.’

‘Christ on a bicycle,’ Cordy muttered. ‘Maybe I ought to give up work straight away.’

‘No!’ I snapped at her. She had entirely missed the point. ‘The monkey’s-paw mother doesn’t care what she looks like. She doesn’t give a damn! She knows where she belongs and she’s determined to go back there, no matter how inconvenient it is for everybody else.’

Cordy looked at me as if I was weird.

‘Don’t sacrifice your career,’ I begged her. ‘Think of all the other monkey’s-paw mothers struggling on, turned inside out but still fighting. If you give up, you’ll be letting them down.’

She told me she’d think about it, but I had the sense she was only saying that to placate me. Later, I realised my little sermon had been pointless. You can’t tell anyone anything; no one listens. Look at Mark and me. He thinks I’ve sold myself short, thrown away all my talents. And I think he’s wrong. He would like me to paint or sculpt. He says I’d be more fulfilled, but that is utter rubbish. He wants these things for me not for my own sake but because it would make him feel better if I earned ‘pocket-money’.